Orange Mock
by theinsane
Summary: Keira realizes she is in a love that simply isn't, and remembers.


**Orange Mock**

Summary: Keira realizes she is in a love that simply isn't, and remembers.

First of all, "Orange Mock" is a flower which meaning is deceit. And it seems to me that Erol is the type to fake liking someone to get what he wants. (And the only reason I know that what a flower means is because I thought 'hey, if there is mushy gushy stuff that flowers mean, can't there be cool stuff, too?' Not much, though, but whatever. I was kind of hoping that one would mean 'retard', or something. That's what I get for hoping stupid hopes, I guess.)

Okay. Getting to the point... now!

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_Because orange mocks are white,_

_And roses are red,_

_I hope that you love..._

_And then the dearest is dead._

It is with a grand loathing and reluctance does she accept the white and red flora, plastic wrapped around the vascular stems gleaming insidiously at her, though being an inanimate object and, thus, incapable of such a projection of threats. It is with a greatly broken heart that she finally accepts that the loving smile on the other's face was a masterpiece painted on with the most careful precision and the highest quality of deceit that a psyche could muster up; the works of a grand artist. A great rage oozes in her veins, because she knows now that this man is a musician, and has been playing her as he would a violin; with beautiful sonatas, a hint of romance, and a dash of fake; because she knows that the man before her is thorough to an outlandish extreme--whether it be a getting rid of the blood that stained his gloves and the weapon that bore a scattered crimson, or tricking a girl to love him so that she would be his mechanic. It is only natural, the bitter tragedy that his mind weaves in poems so subtle, to give her hints that would only make sense to his amusement, the little monster it was.

But, Keira smiles. She goes out to dinner, and eats the finest cuisine and has her hearing massaged by the most perfect of musicians, glow of the candle caressing their skins and warming their flesh as jokes are offhandedly exchanged. Keira is happy to live in a love that isn't, because despite the fact that everything was fake, his smiles were only for her, and his lies were for her sweet-nothing-loving ears only. And she hopes in her hopeless desperation, that this will change, that she could change him and his heathen ways. She knows she's lying to herself, knows that she is as bad if not worse than him. But she doesn't care, and that makes her feel lower than the corpses they walk upon.

Keira cries when she is alone. In the back of her mind, she knows Erol would not change, and the fact is painted on the backs of her eyelids and stars in her nightmares. Why would he change? It would not matter, because either way, she would be his mechanic, and it would only cause unnecessary feelings to sprout up and choke his freezing heart. Why spare a stupid little girl's feelings?

In the darkness between sleeping and life, Keira remembers a blond boy. She remembers a wordless poet that would give her flowers, and make her feel needed. She remembers a happier time, where Orange Mocks weren't flora that had the bitter definition of lies, but, rather, a white flower to show they cared and a rose to make her feel special.

But times like that have passed, and it's the little things that make her hate herself, the minuscule actions that make her feel used. She misses innocence, she misses having someone to relate to; and desperately, oh so desperately, she wishes upon a fiery ball of hydrogen that doesn't listen, to please allow her to go back to living in oblivion. She misses the boy who gave white flowers he randomly picked to show he cared, and the thorny crimson he bought with his allowance that made her feel special.

She finds him, though--the one who made her crave his love so much--but the wordless poet has disappeared, and in his place is a soldier that spits insults, returning from a bloody war. There is no more time for caring and there is little heart left to love.

There are no more flowers for Keira.

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From the twsited mind of theinsane, whom wishes for reviews. 


End file.
